All Men Must Serve
by Gwenwhyfar
Summary: Newly minted Commander of the Night's Watch, Jon receives visitors from Eastwatch, including a certain visitor he'd thought dead... AU / spoilers for all books.


"Lord Commander?"

Jon watched the recruits from across the courtyard. Many of them were young, most were skin over bones, barely able to lift a sword, let alone wield one with any semblance of skill. Their clean-shaven faces reminded him of Winterfell, of Robb and Theon. He had put miles and miles between himself and the bastard boy he once was.

"Lord Commander?" The steward cleared his throat.

"Yes, Boren? What is it?" Jon turned away from the training pitch and tucked his hands into his belt.

"There's a small party arrived from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, my lord. They're asking for an audience."

Jon cocked an eyebrow at the trembling boy beside him, who shifted from foot to foot and kept his eyes down, even though Jon had told him more than once that there was nothing to fear, and that as a man of the Night's Watch it was his duty to carry himself with integrity; back straight, eyes forward. _Always watchful, always waiting. _"I'm not the Iron King and Brothers of the Watch do not ask for an audience. Are they rested?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Have they eaten?"

"Yes, m'lord."

Jon nodded. Out of habit, he scanned the faces of the new recruits for any resemblance to Bran or Rickon. "Bring them to my quarters."

"Yes, Lord Commander." The boy hesitated.

"_Now,_ Boren."

"Yes, Lord Commander."

The boy tripped, scrambled back up, and ran off at breakneck speed. He was fast, when he was not stumbling over his own limbs. Jon had found his steward's speed a useful asset. _Who would have come from Eastwatch?_

He pushed a thick tome on the history of the Seven Kingdoms, a parting gift from Sam, off his desk. It thudded softly into the basket piled with papers he no longer needed or could not be bothered to read. Jon glanced longingly at Longclaw resting against the back of his chair. Stewarding for Lord Mormont he'd failed to notice how much time the Lord Commander spent in his quarters, poring over paperwork, costs, taxes, food supplies...the list of concerns was endless.

A timid knock at the door. _Boren_.

"Enter," Jon called. The door swung inward and Boren stepped inside, followed by the men from Eastwatch.

"The patrol from Eastwatch, Lord Commander," Boren bobbed his head and stepped aside to let all the men through. It was curious they hadn't given his steward a name to announce. Usually the head ranger would take that honour upon himself. He watched the men file in and arrange themselves in the cramped quarters. Sam had tried to persuade him to move into Lord Mormont's larger rooms; Jon simply could not bring himself to clear out the Old Bear's belongings.

"Commander Pyke sent you?" He asked, addressing the man closest to his desk. The last time he saw Cotter Pyke, the foul-mouthed commander had not been pleased the position of Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had gone to the bastard son of Ned Stark.

"Commander Pyke is dead...my lord," the brother replied. He was old, with close-cropped grey hair and a lattice of scars down his left cheek. Jon did not recognise him.

"Who are you, and who commands Eastwatch?"

"Lord Commander, I am Grenn Harden, brother to maester Harmune of Eastwatch, and first ranger to Commander Kell - Roryn Kell - my lord."

"Roryn Kell, Commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And why wasn't I informed of Pyke's death?"

"Lord Commander, I am informing you now. We have not been able to send a raven. After commander Pyke sent for reinforcements from Hardhome, he and his men were besieged by the undead. A single ship made it home to Eastwatch. Commander Pyke died en route."

The ranger was well trained. He kept his eyes forward and his back straight. Any indignation at Jon's refusal to send reinforcements to Hardhome was well masked.

Jon glanced from Harden to the other men. They were all travel-weary; dark eyes, muddy boots and dirty skin. The others kept their eyes down. There was clearly more to their story, and that of Cotter Pyke. Jon's annoyance prickled beneath his skin. He doubted he had trained himselfwell enough to hide it. There were eight of them crowding his quarters, and all but two wore black. Jon breathed as his eyes slid over the two boys not in black. They were almost of a height, but where one stood tall, straight-backed and broad-shouldered, the other stood hunched over, dirty blond hair covering his eyes, fingers fidgeting restlessly with the hen of his tunic. _New recruits? _

"You have a letter for me, from this new Commander?"

"Of course, my lord." Harden reached between the folds of his cloak and stepped forward, handing Jon a scroll.

"You are dismissed. My steward will find you suitable quarters for the night. I shall be sending a letter back with you for Commander Kell. Boren will deliver it to you on the morrow. I trust you were not planning on making this an extended visit?"

"No, Lord Commander. We have delivered our charge," Harden replied. He lowered his eyes.

"Good. Dismissed."

The men slowly shuffled out the door, poking and prodding one another as they made their way into the cold. One of the boys lingered.

"You will be seen to by my steward, boy. He will find you a hot meal and a warm bed for the night. Though what will befall you should you choose to pledge your life to the Night's Watch-"

"I don't think you'd have me," the boy interjected. Jon glanced up. He had already broken the seal of black wax and unrolled the parchment. A faint smile pulled at the boy's mouth. Jon's back tensed. He was being mocked.

"The Night's Watch is always in need of more men. If you are strong and brave, even if you are not, but are willing to work to become so, then I am sure Commander Kell will find a place for you." He replied tersely.

"He has. He sent me here. Read your letter, Jon." A small smile and familiar eyes.

_Perhaps a squire from Winterfell? No, he would have known him. One of Mance Rayder's boys, scrubbed clean? _Jon did not recognise the face. Only the eyes and the smile were familiar.

"I dismissed you, you insolent boy, along with the rest -" he raised himself out of his chair and stepped around his desk, still clutching the letter in his hand. Why none of the Eastwatch men had noted the boy's absence...It baffled him that Harden would allow for such insolence.

"You -," he began.

"Please read the letter," the boy replied. He folded his hands and struck an expectant pose.

Jon fumed. He could not strike a boy. The recruit was not his to punish, and he reasoned that perhaps the trial of a long ride on meagre rations had left the boy a bit touched. He tugged the parchment taut between his hands and struggled through the scratched writing.

"Jon-" The boy's voice was soft and faintly familiar.

"Who _are _you?"

"I am no one." There was suddenly a small hand on his arm. He looked at it as though it belonged to another world. "Jon."

"Get your hands off me," he hissed. His own hands trembled.

"Jon, look at me." The boy raised his hands to his forehead. He dug his nails into the skin where his hair started. Biting his lip until it bled he pushed his fingers in further, grabbing hold of the skin on his forehead which was suddenly loose and malleable. Jon drew back. Longclaw was still on the other side of his desk. He reached for the dagger in his belt and drew it, shifting his weight, ready to strike. It was not Valyrian steel, but it would serve. The boy was still peeling the skin downward. It passed his eyes, his nose, his lips, and his chin, down his neck. The boy before him held an empty mask of skin in his right hand. With his left, he reached up and wiped the remnants of his mask from his eyes, his cheeks, his lips.

"Arya," Jon breathed.

She tossed the boy's face into the hearth. The skin crackled like bacon and the sickly smell of burnt flesh drifted through the room.

"Jon." She stepped forward and slid her hand, still sticky with whatever had held her disguise together, over Jon's. "You will not need your weapon," she said softly.

Together they pushed the dagger back into its hilt at Jon's waist. She was taller, much taller, and her hands and arms were strong, wiry. _Strong enough to wield a sword._ Jon fought the urge to slip his arms around her and hold her to him. It had been so long.

"Where have you been?" He croaked. _Where, why, how, when? This magic, you hair, your face, gods, your family..._ His thoughts raced.

"I have been away." She left her hand on his. "I have returned, now," she said, slowly, as though explaining something difficult to a child.

"I...see." He breathed between words. "Robb, he-"

"I know."

"And your mother-" Jon struggled with his words.

"I know."

"Bran and Rickon...Theon, he-"

"Ah," she said. "Winter may have finally come, Jon, but we Starks never abandon all hope."

Jon wanted to swing Longclaw at something hard and unyielding. _Her, here. _It was impossible. He had made his peace. Benjen Stark lost beyond the Wall, Robb and Catelyn murdered, Bran and Rickon..."Sansa," he whispered.

"You do not know her whereabouts. Whether she is alive or dead. I know," Arya answered. "I believe she is alive. I believe that Bran, and Rickon, and uncle Benjen are _all _alive, Jon."

He shook his head and searched her face. There she was. Arya. His little sister.

"I understand how badly you want that to be true, little sister. How badly _I _want it t o be true."

"Ah, but you are much too sensible to believe in the fantasies of a grief stricken girl? Lord Commander of the Night's Watch." His title sounded a playful mockery.

Jon leaned back against his desk. How oft he had prayed for the return of one of his brothers or sisters. Bran, Arya, Rickon...Sansa even. When Catelyn Stark had been murdered, when Robb - he swallowed, pushing the image of Grey Wind from his mind.

"Why are you here?" He asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"Finally. A sensible question." She folded her own arms, the act made her look slight in her tunic and breeches. He would have to see to it she was given a decent cloak, Jon mused. "Tommen's reign is coming to an end," she said. "The Queen across the Narrow Sea has set sail for Westeros."

"Daenerys Targaryen."

"Rightful heir to the Iron Throne. That is-" she shifted uneasily and turned her head to the side, watching him.

"Arya Stark." Her name was bitter on his tongue, while having her here, alive, was sweeter than any confectioner's concoction.

"Lord Commander," she replied. She unfolded her arms and smiled at him, guilelessly. The way she had smiled when he had first taught her to notch an arrow, and then to hit a target, and later, unbeknownst to Lady Stark, to hit a moving target; to hunt.

"There is more to say."

"There is," Arya agreed. "For now though, as you are Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and I would like to claim my rights as your sister once again. Would you show me what lies beyond the Wall?"

Jon nodded, stepping around her to open the door. He hesitated for a moment, then went back, took Longclaw from its perch and slung it across his back.

He watches her as she walks beside him. She has drawn something about herself that disguises her features. It is not as elaborate as the face she threw into the flames but it is enough to stop his men from wondering why there is a woman in their midst. To any unsuspecting observer she is just a travel-weary boy in a dirty tunic. Jon sees Harden look in their direction, but he quickly turns his back. _He knows. _

"Boren?"

"Yes, Lord Commander?" His steward stepped forward just as he was pulling the box that would take them to the top of the Wall closed. _Always watchful, always waiting. _Jon smirks.

"Ready Lord Mormonts quarters, and see too it there's supper waiting in my room when we return from the watch."

"Of course, Lord Commander."

"Wait-," Jon called out, just as his steward was turning. He glanced down at Arya and lowered his voice. "Is there anything in particular you'd like?" She stood there for a moment. looking up at him. Perhaps she felt as he did. The need to absorb every detail of his sister's face, her expressions, and her movements consumed him.

She smiled. "I'm not picky. Whatever you have will be fine, I'm sure. Although I'm no longer partial to seafood," she added, conspiratorially.

"One of the partridges that I saw the boys bring in this morning, some of the venison, if there's any left, and the mushroom soup. Ask Iren to make more if need be," he said. Boren nodded and ran off. They reached the top in silence. He held out his hand and led her onto the ice. She was surefooted, and followed him to the northern edge easily. The wind stung their cheeks and far below them snow swirled as the land turned to ice.

"Winter is coming," Arya said, watching, waiting. She stood still and expectant atop the Wall.

"There are wolves beyond the Wall." Jon looked at her; her eyes were scanning the trees where the forest began its unending stretch north.

"Nymeria was south of the Wall, last I saw her. How would she have made her way past this unscalable barrier of yours?" She smiled sadly, not taking her eyes off the wilderness.

"Stark wolves are resourceful."

"You were never one for sentimentality, Jon." Her smile widened and she pursed her lips to suppress it as she turned back to him.

"Where did you learn this trickery, little sister?" Jon asked. He reached out a gloved hand to touch her face. It had changed to resemble the girl he had gifted with Needle all those years ago.

She backed away from him. "The House of Black and White." She narrowed her eyes, searching for a response. "You don't understand. Nor should I expect you to." She straightened her tunic. "It is my magic to wield, and my burden to carry."

"You are not alone in this," Jon said. He reached for her hands and pulled them around him, wrapping her in his cloak. "I am your brother," he said softly, burying his nose in her hair. He could have consoled Arya, his little sister. He realised this young woman, with her burning eyes and the strong, graceful movements of a shadowcat, would not be so easily soothed. Not by some gentle words and a warm embrace, and the childhood promise that all would seem brighter after a good night's sleep.

"Valar dohaeris," Arya murmured, turning her face into the wind.


End file.
